Nuthampstead Airfield

On a high plateau
the old concrete grid
of runway and peri-track
cling tenaciously to the landscape,
occasionally a Cesna
or an old Jodell
circles then sweeps
down the runway.

The modellers are flying their planes on wires of ether arousing memories painted on this arch of sky.

Clay pigeons shatter in the clatter of gunfire and among hangers now gone and the shiny backs of B17s a ghost of a Yank startles and turns.

Deer have been seen loping the winter plough pausing to listen, sensing perhaps dull echoes from the past when the skies roared and these acres droned with activity, when lorries trundled up the lanes to tumble their load of local girls like flowers on GI blue.